Keziah watched him until he turned from the main road into the lighthouse lane. Then, certain that he really was going straight home, she re-entered the parsonage and sat down in the nearest chair. For ten minutes she sat there, striving to grasp the situation. Then she rose and, putting on her bonnet and shawl, locked the dining-room door, and went out through the kitchen. On the step she looked cautiously back to see if any of the neighbors were at their windows. But this was Sunday, the one day when Trumet people sat in their front parlors. The coast was clear. She hurried through the back yard, and down the path leading across the fields. She was going to the pine grove by the shore, going to find out for herself if Kyan’s astonishing story was true.
For if it was true, if the Rev. John Ellery was meeting clandestinely the adopted daughter of Eben Hammond, it meant–what might it not mean, in Trumet? If he had fallen in love with a Come-Outer, with Grace Van Horne of all people, if he should dare think of marrying her, it would mean the utter wreck of his career as a Regular clergyman. His own society would turn him out instantly. All sorts of things would be said, lies and scandal would be invented and believed. His character would be riddled by the Trumet gossips and the papers would publish the result broadcast.
And Grace! If she loved a Regular minister, what would happen to her? Captain Eben would turn her from his door, that was certain. Although he idolized the girl, Keziah knew that he would never countenance such a marriage. And if Nat stood by Grace, as he would be almost sure to do, the breach between father and son would widen beyond healing. If it were merely a matter of personal selection, Mrs. Coffin would rather have seen her parson marry Grace than anyone else on earth. As it was, such a match must not be. It meant ruin for both. She must prevent the affair going further. She must break off the intimacy. She must save those two young people from making a mistake which would– She wrung her hands as she thought of it. Of her own sorrow and trouble she characteristically thought nothing now. Sacrifice of self was a part of Keziah’s nature.
The pines were a deep-green blotch against the cloudy sky and the gloomy waters of the bay. She skirted the outlying clumps of bayberry and beach plum bushes and entered the grove. The pine needles made a soft carpet which deadened her footfalls, and the shadows beneath the boughs were thick and black. She tiptoed on until she reached the clearing by the brink of the bluff. No one was in sight. She drew a breath of relief. Kyan might be mistaken, after all.
Then she heard low voices. As she crouched at the edge of the grove, two figures passed slowly across the clearing, along the bush-bordered path and into the shrubbery beyond. John Ellery was walking with Grace Van Horne. He was holding her hand in his and they were talking very earnestly.
Keziah did not follow. What would have been the use? This was not the time to speak. She KNEW now and she knew, also, that the responsibility was hers. She must go home at once, go home to be alone and to think. She tiptoed back through the grove and across the fields.
Yet, if she had waited, she might have seen something else which would have been, at least, interesting. She had scarcely reached the outer edge of the grove when another figure passed stealthily along that narrow path by the bluff edge. A female figure treading very carefully, rising to peer over the bushes at the minister and Grace. The figure of Miss Annabel Daniels, the “belle” of Trumet. And Annabel’s face was not pleasant to look upon.
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH CAPTAIN EBEN RECEIVES A CALLER
At the edge of the bluff, just where the pines and the bayberry bushes were thickest, where the narrow, crooked little footpath dipped over the rise and down to the pasture land and the salt meadow, John Ellery and Grace had halted in their walk. It was full tide and the miniature breakers plashed amid the seaweed on the beach. The mist was drifting in over the bay and the gulls were calling sleepily from their perch along the breakwater. A night hawk swooped and circled above the tall “feather grass” by the margin of the creek. The minister’s face was pale, but set and determined, and he was speaking rapidly.
“I can’t help it,” he said. “I can’t help it. I have made up my mind and nothing can change it, nothing but you. It rests with you. If you say yes, then nothing else matters. Will you say it?”
He was holding both her hands now, and though she tried to withdraw them, he would not let her.
“Will you?” he pleaded.
“I can’t,” she answered brokenly. “I can’t. Think of your church and of your people. What would they say if–“
“I don’t care what they say.”
“Oh! yes, you do. Not now, perhaps, but later you will. You don’t know Trumet as I know it. No, it’s impossible.”
“I tell you there is only one impossible thing. That is that I give you up. I won’t do it. I CAN’T do it! Grace, this is life and death for me. My church–“
He paused in spite of himself. His church, his first church! He had accepted the call with pride and a determination to do his best, the very best that was in him, for the society and for the people whom he was to lead. Some of those people he had learned to love; many of them, he felt sure, loved him. His success, his popularity, the growth of the organization and the praise which had come to him because of it, all these had meant, and still meant, very much to him. No wonder he paused, but the pause was momentary.
“My church,” he went on, “is my work and I like it. I believe I’ve done some good here and I hope to do more. But no church shall say whom I shall marry. If you care for me, Grace, as I think and hope you do, we’ll face the church and the town together. and they will respect us for it.”
She shook her head.
“Some of them might respect you,” she said. “They would say you had been led into this by me and were not so much to blame. But I–“
“They shall respect my wife,” he interrupted, snapping his teeth together, “or I’ll know the reason why.”
She smiled mournfully.
“I think they’ll tell you the reason,” she answered. “No, John, no! we mustn’t think of it. You can see we mustn’t. This has all been a mistake, a dreadful mistake, and I am to blame for it.”
“The only mistake has been our meeting in this way. We should have met openly; I realize it, and have felt it for sometime. It was my fault, not yours. I was afraid, I guess. But I’ll not be a coward any longer. Come, dear, let’s not be afraid another day. Only say you’ll marry me and I’ll proclaim it openly, to-night– Yes, from the pulpit, if you say so.”
She hesitated and he took courage from her hesitation.
“Say it,” he pleaded. “You WILL say it?”
“I can’t! I can’t! My uncle–“
“Your uncle shall hear it from me. We’ll go to him together. I’ll tell him myself. He worships you.”
“Yes, I know. He does worship me. That’s why I am sure he had rather see me dead than married to you, a Regular, and a Regular minister.”
“I don’t believe it. He can’t be so unreasonable. If he is, then you shouldn’t humor such bigotry.”
“He has been my father for years, and a dear, kind father.”
“I know. That’s why I’m so certain we can make him understand. Come, dear! come! Why should you consider everyone else? Consider your own happiness. Consider mine.”
She looked at him.
“I am considering yours,” she said. “That is what I consider most of all. And, as for uncle, I know–I KNOW he would never consent. His heart is set on something else. Nat–“
“Nat? Are you considering him, too? Is HE to stand between us? What right has he to say–“
“Hush! hush! He hasn’t said anything. But–but he and uncle have quarreled, just a little. I didn’t tell you, but they have. And I think I know the reason. Nat is Uncle Eben’s idol. If the quarrel should grow more serious, I believe it would break his heart. I couldn’t bear to be the cause of that; I should never forgive myself.”
“You the cause? How could you be the cause of a quarrel between those two? Grace, think of me.”
Here was the selfishness of man and the unselfishness of woman answered.
“John,” she said, “it is of you I am thinking. Everything else could–might be overcome, perhaps. But I must think of your future and your life. I MUST. That is why–“
He did not wait to hear more. He seized her in his arms and kissed her.
“Then you DO care!” he cried joyfully. “You will marry me?”
For an instant she lay quiet in his embrace, receiving, if not responding to his caresses. Then she gently but firmly freed herself. He saw that there were tears in her eyes.
“Grace,” he urged, “don’t–don’t hesitate any longer. You were meant to be my wife. We were brought together for just that. I know it. Come.”
She was crying softly.
“Won’t you?” he begged.
“I don’t know,” she sobbed. “Oh, I don’t know! I must think–I MUST! Wait, please wait, John. Perhaps by to-morrow I can answer. I’ll try–I’ll try. Don’t ask me again, now. Let me think. Oh, do!”
Doubtless he would have asked her again. He looked as if he meant to. But just then, drifting through the twilight and the mist, came the sound of a bell, the bell of the Regular church, ringing for the Sunday evening meeting. They both heard it.
“Oh!” exclaimed Grace, “that is your bell. You will be late. You must go, and so must I. Good night.”
She started down the path. He hesitated, then ran after her.
“To-morrow?” he questioned eagerly. “Tomorrow, then, you’ll say that you will?”
“Oh, perhaps, perhaps! I mustn’t promise. Good night.”
It was after seven when Grace reached the old tavern. The housekeeper, Mrs. Poundberry, was anxiously awaiting her. She wore her bonnet and Sunday gown and was evidently ready to go out.
“Land sakes alive!” she sputtered. “Where in the name of goodness have you been to? I was gettin’ scairt. Didn’t know but you’d run off and got married, or sunthin’ dreadful.”
Grace was thankful that the cloudy twilight made it impossible to see her face distinctly. The housekeeper rattled on without waiting for an answer.
“Supper’s on the table and the kittle’s abilin’. You better eat in a hurry, ’cause it’s meetin’ time now. Your uncle, he started ten minutes ago. I’m agoin’ right along, too, but I ain’t goin’ to meetin’; I’m agoin’ up to Betsy E.’s to stay all night. She’s got a spine in her back, as the feller said, and ain’t feelin’ good, so I told her I’d come and stay a little spell. S’pose you can get along to-morrow without me?”
“Betsy E.” was Mrs. Poundberry’s second cousin, an elderly spinster living alone in a little house near the salt works. Grace assured her questioner that she could attend to the house and the meals during the following day, longer if the troublesome “spine” needed company. Mrs. Poundberry sighed, groaned, and shook her head.
“I shan’t stay no longer,” she affirmed; “not if Betsy’s all over spines, like one of them Mexican cactus plants. No, marm, my place is right here and I know it. Your Uncle Eben’s mighty feeble and peaked lately. He ain’t long for this world, I’m afraid. You’d ought to be awful good to him, Gracie.”
“I know it,” was the hurried reply. “Where’s Nat?”
“I don’t know. Can’t keep track of HIM. Might’s well try to put your finger on a flea. He’s here to-day and gone yesterday, as the Scriptur’ says. He ate a little mite of supper, but not much, and then off he puts. Says he’s goin’ to walk the fog out’n his head. I told him, s’ I, ‘You’ll walk a plaguey sight more in than you do out, THIS night,’ but he went just the same. He was dreadful kind of dumpy and blue this evenin’. Seemed to be sort of soggy in his mind. And why he never went to meetin’ with his dad and why his dad never asked him TO go is more’n I can tell. Land of livin’, how I do gabble! My grandmarm used to say my tongue was loose at both ends and hung in the middle, and I guess she wa’n’t fur off the course. Good-by. Take care of yourself. You can put what’s left of that mock mince pie on the top shelf in the butt’ry and you’d better heave a dish towel or sunthin’ over it to keep the ants out. There’s more ants in this house than there is dollars, a good sight. Betsy B., she’s got a plan for keepin’ of ’em out by puttin’ sassers of brimstone round the shelves, but I told her, s’ I, ‘THEM ants don’t care for no brimstone. They’re used to it. Sometimes I b’lieve they’re sent by the everlastin’ father of brimstone,’ and she–“
She had reached the gate by this time, and Grace shut off the flow of conversation by closing the door. Then she took a candle from the row on the dining-room mantel, lighted it, and went up to her own room. Standing before the old-fashioned bureau with its little oval mirror, she hastily arranged her hair. She did not wish to go to the prayer meeting at the chapel, but she felt that she must. The Come-Outer gatherings, with their noisy singing and shouting, had grown more and more repugnant to her.
And to-night, of all nights! How could she meet those people who had known her since she was a child, who boasted of her as one of their staunchest adherents, who believed in her and trusted her? How could she meet them and talk with them, knowing what she knew and realizing that they, too, would know it on the morrow? But her uncle would miss her and be worried about her if she did not come. She could not bear to trouble him now; she never loved him so dearly, was never so anxious to humor his every wish as on this, perhaps the last evening they would spend together. For, though she would not yet admit it, even to herself, her decision was made, had really been made the first time John Ellery asked her weeks before. Only the thought of what might happen to him if she consented had caused her to hesitate so long.
She blew out the candle and came out into the hall at the head of the stairs. She was about to descend when she heard voices. The door of the dining room opened and closed. She felt certain that Nat had returned and wondered who was with him. Then she heard her uncle’s voice, speaking sharply and with unwonted sternness.
“I don’t know what ’tis you want to see me about,” said Captain Eben. “You say it’s important; well, it’s got to be to keep me from my meetin’. I ought to be on the Lord’s business this minute and nothin’ worldly’s goin’ to keep me from servin’ Him. So speak quick. What is it?”
The voice that answered was one that Grace recognized, though she had never before heard in it the note of agitation and undignified excitement. There were no ponderous pauses and “Hum–ha’s” now.
“Don’t be a fool, Hammond!” it said. “And don’t stand there preaching. Lock that door! Get a lamp! Are you sure there’s nobody but us in the house?”
Captain Elkanah Daniels! Captain Elkanah visiting a Come-Outer! and the leader of the Come-Outers!! Grace caught her breath. What in the world– She started to descend and then a thought flashed to her mind. She stopped short.
“I ain’t the fool, Elkanah,” she heard her uncle retort sternly. “The fools are them who are deef to the call from on high. My foot was on the threshold of His house when you led me astray. It’s never halted there afore. I warn you–“
“Hush! Shut up! Can’t you forget that–that Come-Outer circus of yours for a minute?”
“Elkanah Daniels, I’ll have no blasphemy here. Another word like that and–“
“WILL you be still and hear me? The Lord’s business! I guess you’ll think it’s the Lord’s business when you understand what I’m going to tell you! The Lord’s business! The devil’s business, you better say! Will you lock that door?”
“My church is waitin’ for me and–“
“Let it wait. What’s a parcel of yelling Come-Outers compared to the decency of this town? Stop! Shut up! Eben Hammond, I tell you that your precious church–yes and mine, the Regular church of Trumet–will go to rack and ruin if you and me don’t pull together this night.”
“And I tell you, Elkanah Daniels, I’ll have no blasphemy here. That little sanctuary up the road is founded on a rock and neither you nor any of your Phariseein’ priest-worshipin’ crew can shake it. The Almighty’ll protect His own. As for the Reg’lar church, that’s no concern of mine.”
“But I tell you ’tis your concern. Or if the church isn’t, your own family is.”
“My–my family?”
“Yes, your own family. Huh! that makes you listen, don’t it?”
There was an instant of silence. Grace, crouching on the stairs, noticed the change in her uncle’s voice as he answered.
“My own family?” he repeated slowly. “My own– And the Reg’lar church– What do you mean? Has Nat–“
“No, he ain’t. But that cussed girl of yours–“
“Stop!” Eben’s shout rang through the house. The listener heard it, rose, and then sank slowly to her knees.
“Stop!” shouted Captain Hammond. “Elkanah Daniels, for your own sake now, be careful. If you dast to say a word, another word like that, I’ll–“
“If I dast! The hussy! But there’s no use talkin’ to you. You’re as crazy as a Bedlamite. Either that, or you’re in the game with her. If you are, I warn you–“
“Stop! What game? What do you mean? Gracie! My Grace! What is it? For mercy sakes, Elkanah–“
“Humph! I wondered if I couldn’t get some sense into you, finally. Lock that door!”
“I will! I will! But Elkanah–“
“Lock it! Give me the key!”
The click of the lock sounded sharply.
“Where’s the lamp?” demanded Daniels. “And the matches? Don’t stand there shaking.”
A smell of sulphur floated out into the hall. Then the sickly glow of the “fluid” lamp shone through the doorway.
“What ails you?” asked Elkanah. “Are you struck dumb? Now go and see if there’s anybody else in the house.”
“But–but there ain’t. I know there ain’t. Hannah’s gone and Gracie’s at meetin’ by this time.”
“She? Humph! Well, maybe she’s at meeting and maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s over in Peters’s pines, hugging and kissing that man she’s met there every Sunday for I don’t know how long– Here! let go, you old fool! Let go, I tell you!”
A chair fell to the floor with a bang. There was the sound of hard breathing and rapid footsteps.
“Let go!” panted Daniels. “Are you crazy? Take your hands off me!”
“You liar!” snarled Captain Eben. “You low-lived liar! By the Almighty, Elkanah Daniels! I’ll– You take that back or I’ll choke the everlastin’ soul out of you. I will–“
“Let go, you lunatic! You’ll kill yourself. Listen! I’m not lying. It’s the truth. She’s met a man, I tell you. Been meeting him for months, I guess. There! now will you listen?”
The footsteps had ceased, but the heavy breathing continued.
“A man!” gasped Eben. “A man! Gracie! It’s a– Who is he? What’s his name?”
“His name’s John Ellery, and he’s minister of the Regular church in this town; that’s who he is! Here! hold up! Good Lord! are you dying? Hold up!”
The girl on the stairs sprang to her feet. Her head was reeling and she could scarcely stand, but she blindly began the descent. She must go to her uncle. She must. But Captain Daniels’s voice caused her to halt once more.
“There! there!” it said in a tone of relief. “That’s better. Set still now. Be quiet, that’s it. Shall I get some water?”
“No, no! let me be. Just let me be. I ain’t what I used to be and this– I’m all right, I tell you. Grace! And–and– What was it you just said? I–I don’t b’lieve I heard it right.”
“I said that daughter of yours, or niece, or whatever she is, this Grace Van Horne, has been meeting young Ellery, our minister, in Peters’s grove. Been meeting him and walking with him, and kissing him, and–“
“It’s a lie! It ain’t so, Elkanah! Prove it or– It–it CAN’T be so, can it? Please–“
“It is so. She’s met him in those pines every Sunday afternoon for a long time. She was seen there with him this afternoon.”
“Who–who saw her?”
“Never mind. The one that did’ll never tell–unless it’s necessary. They’re fixing to be married, and–“
“MARRIED! She marry a Reg’lar minister! Oh–“
“Hush! Listen! They ain’t married yet. We can stop ’em, you and I, if we get right to work. It isn’t too late. Will you help?”
“Will I–I– Go on! tell me more.”
“We can stop ’em. I know it would be a good catch for her, the sneaking, designing– Well, never mind. But it can’t be. It shan’t be. You’ve got to tell her so, Hammond. We folks of the Regular church have pride in our society; we won’t have it disgraced. And we have been proud of our minister, the young, rattle-headed fool! We’ll save him if we can. If we can’t”–the speaker’s teeth grated–“then we’ll send him to eternal smash or die trying.”
“But I can’t believe it’s true. It’s a mistake; some other girl and not Gracie. Why, she don’t even know him. She wouldn’t– But she HAS been out every Sunday afternoon for weeks. If it SHOULD be!”
“It is. I tell you it is. Don’t waste time rolling your eyes and talking stuff. We’ve got to work and you’ve got to work first. I don’t know whether you’re only making believe or not. I realize that ‘twould be a good thing for your girl to marry a promising young chap like him, but– Hush! let me go on. I tell you, Hammond, it can’t be. We won’t let her. I won’t let her. I’m a man of influence in this town, and outside of it, too. I’m head of the parish committee and a member of the National Regular Society. I can’t reach your precious ward, maybe, but I can reach the fellow she’s after, and if he marries her, I’ll drive ’em both to the poorhouse.
“Here’s where you come in, Hammond. It may be she does really care for him. Or maybe she’s after position and money. Well, you talk to her. You tell her that if she keeps on going with him, if she doesn’t break off this damnable business now, tomorrow, I’ll ruin John Ellery as sure as I’m a living man. He’ll be ruined in Trumet, anyhow. He’ll be thrown out by the parish committee. I’m not sure that his church people won’t tar and feather him. Marrying a low-down Come-Outer hussy! As if there wa’n’t decent girls of good families he might have had! But losing this church won’t be the only thing that’ll happen to him. The committee’ll see that he doesn’t get another one. I’ll use my influence and have him thrown out of the Regular ministry. Think I can’t? What sort of yarns do you suppose will be told about him and her, meeting the way they did? Won’t the county papers print some fine tales? Won’t the Boston ones enjoy such a scandal? I tell you, Eben Hammond, that young chap’s name will be dragged so deep in the mud it’ll never get clean again.”
He stopped for breath. His companion was silent. After a moment, he continued:
“You tell her that, Hammond,” he went on. “If she really cares for him, it’ll be enough. She won’t let him ruin his life. And I’ll keep quiet till I hear from you. If she’s sensible and really decent, then she can give him his clearance papers without his knowing why she did it and everything will be a secret and kept so. Nobody else’ll ever know. If she won’t do that, then you tell me and I’ll have a session with HIM. If THAT’S no good, then out he goes and she with him; and it’s ruination for both of ’em, reputations and all. Why am I doing this? I’ll tell you. I like him. He isn’t orthodox enough to suit me, but I have liked him mighty well. And Annab– Humph! that’s neither here nor there. What I’m fighting for is the Trumet Regular church. That’s MY church and I’ll have no dirty scandal with Come-Outers dragging it down. Now you understand. Will you tell her what I’ve said?”
The chair creaked. Evidently, Captain Eben was rising slowly to his feet.
“Well?” repeated Elkanah.
“Elkanah Daniels,” said Eben slowly, his voice shaking from nervous exhaustion and weakness, but with a fine ring of determination in every word, “Elkanah Daniels, you listen to me. I’ve heard you through. If your yarn is true, then my heart is broke, and I wish I might have died afore I heard it. But I didn’t die and I have heard it. Now listen to me. I love that girl of mine better’n the whole wide world and yet I’d ruther see her dead afore me than married to a Reg’lar minister. Disgrace to HIM! Disgrace to your miser’ble church! What about the disgrace to MINE? And the disgrace to HER? Ruin to your minister! Ruin to my girl here and hereafter is what I’m thinkin’ of; that and my people who worship God with me. I’ll talk to Grace. I’ll talk to her. But not of what’ll happen to him or you–or any of your cantin’, lip-servin’ crew. I’ll tell her to choose between him and me. And if she chooses him, I’ll send her out of that door. I’ll do my duty and read her out of my congregation. And I’ll know she’s gone to everlastin’ hell, and that’s worse’n the poorhouse. That’s all to- night, Elkanah. Now you better go.”
“Humph! Well, I declare! you ARE a bigoted–“
“Stop it! I’ve kept my hands off you so fur, because I’m the Lord’s servant. But I’m fightin’ hard to keep down my old salt- water temper. You go! There’s the door.”
“All right, all right! I don’t care what you say, so long as it’s said so as to stop her from getting him–and said soon.”
“It’ll be said to-night. Now go! My people are waitin’ at the chapel.”
“You’re not going to that prayer meeting after THIS?”
“Where else should I go? ‘Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden.’ And–and”–his voice broke–“He knows that I AM heavy laden. Lord! Lord! do help me, for this is more’n I can bear alone.”
The lock turned; the door opened and closed. Grace, clinging to the balusters, heard Captain Hammond cross the room, slowly and feebly. She heard him enter the sitting room. Then she heard nothing more, not another sound, though the minutes dragged on and on, endlessly, eternally, and each with a message, a sentence repeated over and over again in her brain. “If she really cares for him, she won’t let him ruin his life.”
By and by, pale, but more composed, and with her mind made up, she came down into the hall. Drawing a long breath, she turned into the sitting room to face her uncle. By the light shining through the dining-room door she saw him on his knees by the haircloth sofa. She spoke his name. He did not answer nor look up. Alarmed, she touched him on the shoulder. At her touch his arm slid from the couch and he fell gently over upon his side on the carpet.
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH CAPTAIN EBEN MAKES PORT
Half past eight. In the vestry of the Regular church John Ellery was conducting his prayer meeting. The attendance was as large as usual. Three seats, however, were vacant, and along the settees people were wondering where Captain Elkanah Daniels and his daughter might be. They had not missed a service for many a day. And where was Keziah Coffin?
At the Come-Outer chapel the testifying and singing were in full blast. But Ezekiel Bassett was leading, for Captain Eben Hammond had not made his appearance. Neither had Grace Van Horne, for that matter, but Captain Eben’s absence was the most astonishing.
“Somethin’s the matter,” whispered Josiah Badger to his right-hand neighbor. “Somethin’s wrong d-d-d-down to the tavern, sartin’ sure. I’m goin’ down there just soon’s meetin’s over and f-f-f- find out. Eben wouldn’t no more miss leadin’ his meetin’ from choice than I’d go without a meal’s v-v-vi-vittles. Somethin’s happened and I’m goin’ to know what ’tis. You’ll go along with me, won’t ye, Lot?”
The answer was an affirmative. In fact, almost every worshiper in that chapel had determined to visit the Hammond tavern as soon as the service was at an end.
In the Regular parsonage Keziah sat alone by the sitting-room table. Prayer meeting and supper she had forgotten entirely. The minister had not come home for his evening meal, and food was furthest from the housekeeper’s thoughts. What should she do? What ought she to do? How could she avert the disaster so certain to overwhelm those two young people the moment their secret became known?
It was in vain that she tried to encourage herself with the hope that Kyan had exaggerated–that the meetings in the grove had not been as frequent as he said they were, or that they had been merely casual. She knew better. She had seen the pair together and the look in John Ellery’s eyes. No, the mischief was done, they loved each other; or, at least, he loved her. There was the great trouble.
Keziah, in spite of her worldly common sense, was an idealist at heart. Love matches she believed in thoroughly. If the man had not been a Regular minister, or if he had been a minister in any other town than narrow, gossiping, squabbling Trumet, where families were divided on “religious” grounds, neighbors did not speak because their creeds were different, and even after death were buried in cemeteries three miles apart; if the girl had been other than the ward of bigoted old Eben Hammond–then, though they were poor as poverty itself, Keziah would have joined their hands and rejoiced. Even as it was, she was strongly tempted to do it. Her sense of right and her every inclination urged her toward that course. “Face the world together and fight it out,” that was the advice she would like to give them. But no, the battle was too uneven. The odds were too great. They must not think of marriage, for the present, and they must cease to meet. Perhaps some day– she tried to comfort herself with the thought–perhaps some day, years afterwards and under different circumstances, they might–
With Ellery she felt certain she could accomplish nothing by argument or persuasion. She knew him well enough by this time to realize that, if his mind was made up, all Trumet and all creation could not change it. He would keep on his course, and, if wrecked, would go down with colors set and helm lashed. But Grace, perhaps she did not fully realize the situation. She might be made to see, to listen to reason. And, perhaps, it was possible–perhaps, on her part, matters were not as serious. The minister had not acted like a triumphant lover, assured of success; he had seemed, now that she thought of it, more like a pleader, a supplicant. Perhaps, if she could see Grace and talk plainly with the girl, it might not be too late. She determined to try that very night.
She rose and again donned her bonnet and shawl. She was about to blow out the lamp when she heard rapid footsteps, the sound of some one running along the sidewalk in front of the house. As she listened, the footsteps sounded on the path. Whoever the runner was he was coming to the parsonage. She stepped to the door and opened it.
The runner was a boy, Maria Higgins’s boy Isaac, whose widowed mother lived down by the shore. He did the chores at the Hammond tavern. His freckled face was dripping with perspiration and he puffed and blew like a stranded whale.
“What’s the matter, Ike?” demanded Keziah. “What is it?”
“Have ye–have ye,” panted Ike, “have ye seen the doctor anywheres, Mis Coffin?”
“Who? Dr. Parker? Have I seen–what in the world are you comin’ HERE after the doctor for?”
“‘Cause–’cause I didn’t know where else to come. I been to his house and he ain’t to home. Nobody ain’t to home. His wife, Mis Parker, she’s gone up to Boston yes’day on the coach, and–and it’s all dark and the house door’s open and the shay’s gone, so–“
“Who’s sick? Who wants him?”
“And–and–all the rest of the houses round here was shut up ’cause everybody’s to meetin’. I peeked in at the meetin’ house and he ain’t there, and I see your light and–“
“Who’s sick? Tell me that, won’t you?”
“Cap’n Eben. He’s awful sick. I cal’late he’s goin’ to die, and Gracie, she–“
“Cap’n Eben? Eben Hammond! Dyin’? What are you talkin’ about?”
“Huh! huh!” puffed the messenger impatiently. “Didn’t I tell ye? Cap’n Eben’s adyin’. I seen him. All white and still and–and awful. And Gracie, she’s all alone and–“
“Alone? Where’s Nat?”
“She don’t know. He ain’t to home. But I got to find Dr. Parker.”
“Hold on! Stop! I’ll tell you where the doctor is most likely. Up to Mrs. Prince’s. She’s been poorly and he’s prob’ly been called there. Run! run fast as ever you can and get him and I’ll go to Grace this minute. The poor thing! Have you told anybody else?”
“No, no! ain’t seen nobody but you to tell. They was prayin’ over to meetin’, and the fellers that waits outside to keep comp’ny with the girls ain’t got there yet. And I never met nobody. And ’twas so blasted dark I fell down four times and tore my best pants and–“
“S-sh-sh! Listen to me! Don’t tell anybody. Not a soul but the doctor. Half this town’ll be runnin’ to find out if you do, and that poor girl must be distracted already. I’ll go to her. You get Dr. Parker and tell him to hurry.”
“I’ll tell him; don’t you fret.”
He was gone, running harder than ever. A moment later Keziah followed him, running also.
It was a misty, black night, and Trumet sidewalks were uneven and hard to navigate. But she stumbled on, up the main road to the Corners, down the “Turn-off,” past the chapel of the Come-Outers, from the open window of which sounded the drone of a high, nasal voice. Josiah Badger was “testifying,” and Keziah caught a fragment of the testimony as she hurried by.
“I says to ’em, says I, I says to ’em, ‘I don’t care about your smart mum-mum-minister and what fine sermons he preaches. Let him BE smart,’ I says. Says I, ‘Smartness won’t g-g-g-git ye into heaven.’ (“Amen!”) ‘No, sirree! it takes more’n that. I’ve seen smart folks afore and they got c-c-cuk-catched up with sooner or later. Pride goes ahead of a tumble, I’ve heard tell, and–“
This was all that Keziah heard of Mr. Badger’s testimony, for, as she ran on, a rattle of wheels and the thud of hoofs came from behind her. Then a rocking chaise, drawn by a galloping horse, shot by. Dr. Parker’s carriage, she was sure. The Higgins boy must have met the doctor and delivered his message.
The horse and chaise were standing by the front gate of the tavern as she pantingly drew near it. The side door of the house was ajar and she opened it softly and entered. The dining room was empty. There was a light on the sitting-room table and low voices came from the little bedroom adjoining. Then, from the bedroom, emerged Dr. Parker and Grace Van Horne. The girl was white and there were dark circles under her eyes. The doctor was very grave.
Keziah stepped forward and held out both hands. Grace looked, recognized her, and with a cry ran toward her. Keziah took her in her arms and soothed her as if she were a child.
“There! there! deary,” she said, stroking her hair. “There! there! deary, don’t take it so hard. Poor thing! you’re worn out. If I’d only known sooner.”
“O Aunt Keziah!” sobbed the girl. “I’m so glad you’ve come. It was so good of you.”
“Good! Land of mercy! If I hadn’t come, I’d have been worse than the beasts that perish. Don’t cry, don’t. How is he now? Some better?”
She looked at the doctor as she asked it. He shook his head emphatically.
“Well, well, dear,” went on Mrs. Coffin hurriedly. “He will be pretty soon, we’ll hope. You mustn’t give up the ship, you know. Now you go and lay down somewheres and I’ll get my things off and see what there is to do. Some good strong tea might be good for all hands, I guess likely. Where’s Hannah Poundberry?”
“She’s gone to her cousin’s to stay all night. I suppose I ought to send for her, but I–“
“No, no, you hadn’t. Might’s well send for a poll parrot, the critter would be just as much good and talk less. I’ll look out for things, me and the doctor. Where’s–where’s Nat?”
“He came in just after I sent the boy for the doctor. He’s in there with–with him,” indicating the bedroom. “Poor Nat!”
Keziah looked longingly toward the door.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Poor fellow, it’s an awful shock to him. He and his father are– But there! you lay down on that lounge.”
“I can’t lie down. I can’t do anything but think. Oh, what a dreadful day this has been! And I thought it was going to be such a happy one!”
“Yes, yes, deary, I know.”
Grace raised her head.
“You know?” she repeated, looking up into the housekeeper’s face.
“I mean I know it’s been a dreadful day,” explained Keziah quickly. “Yes, indeed it has,” with a sigh. “But there! our moanin’ over it don’t cheer it up any. Will you lay down? No? Well, then, SET down, there’s a good girl.”
Grace, protesting that she couldn’t sit down, she couldn’t leave uncle, and there were so many things to do, was at last persuaded by Keziah and the doctor to rest for a few moments in the big rocker. Then Mrs. Coffin went into the kitchen to prepare the tea. As she went, she beckoned to Dr. Parker, who joined her a moment later.
“Well, doctor?” she asked anxiously.
The stout, gray-haired old physician–he had practiced in Trumet for nearly thirty years–shook his head.
“Not a single chance,” he whispered. “He may possibly live till morning, but I doubt if he lasts an hour. It’s his heart. I’ve expected it at any time. Ever since he had that shock, I’ve been at him to take things easy; but you might as well talk to a graven image. That Come-Outer foolishness is what really killed him, though just what brought on this attack I can’t make out. Grace says she found him lying on the floor by the sofa. He was unconscious then. I’m rather worried about her. She was very near to fainting when I got here.”
“No wonder. All alone in this ark of a house and nobody to help or to send. Lucky she found that Ike Higgins. Say, I wonder if the young one’s around here now? If he is, he must stand at the gate and scare off Come-Outers. The whole chapel, mates, crew, and cabin boy, ‘ll be down here soon’s meetin’s over to see what kept Eben. And they mustn’t get in.”
“I should say not. I’ll hunt up Ike. If a Come-Outer gets into this house to-night I’ll eat him, that’s all.”
“Some of ’em would give you dyspepsy, I guess. Yes, Grace, I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
The doctor left the house to find young Higgins and post him at the gate. The boy, who had been listening under the window, was proud of his new responsibility.
“I’ll fix ’em, doctor,” he declared. “I only hope old Zeke Bassett comes. He lammed me with a horsewhip t’other day, ’cause I was ridin’ behind his ox cart. If he tried to git by me, I’ll bounce a rock off’n his Sunday hat.”
“Doctor,” whispered Keziah from the kitchen window. “Doctor, come quick. Nat wants you.”
Captain Nat was standing at the door of the bedroom. His face was drawn and he had seemingly grown years older since noon.
“He’s come to himself, doc,” he whispered. “He don’t remember how it happened or anything. And he wants us all. Why! why, Keziah! are you here?”
“Yes, Nat. I’ve been here a little while.”
He looked at her steadily and his eyes brightened just a trifle.
“Did you come to see me?” he asked. “Was it about what I said this–“
“No, no, Nat; no. I heard the news and that Grace was alone; so I come right down.”
He nodded wearily.
“You can come in, too,” he said. “I know dad likes you and I guess– Wait a minute; I’ll ask him.” He stepped back into the bedroom. “Yes,” he nodded, returning, “you come, too. He wants you.”
The little room, Captain Eben’s own, was more like a skipper’s cabin than a chamber on land. A narrow, single bed, a plain washstand, a battered, painted bureau and a single chair–these made up the list of furniture. Two pictures, both of schooners under full sail, hung on the walls. Beside them hung a ship’s barometer, a sextant, and a clock that struck the “bells,” instead of the hours as the landsman understands them. In the corner stood the captain’s big boots and his oilskins hung above them. His Sunday cane was there also. And on the bureau was a worn, heavy Bible.
Dr. Parker brushed by the others and bent over the bed.
“Well, cap’n,” he said cheerily, “how’s she headed? How are you feeling now?”
The old face on the pillow smiled feebly.
“She’s headed for home, I guess, doc,” said Captain Eben. “Bound for home, and the harbor light broad abeam, I cal’late.”
“Oh, no! you’ll make a good many voyages yet.”
“Not in this hulk, I won’t, doctor. I hope I’ll have a new command pretty soon. I’m trustin’ in my owners and I guess they’ll do the fair thing by me. Halloo, Gracie, girl! Well, your old uncle’s on his beam ends, ain’t he?”
Grace glanced fearfully at his face. When he spoke her name she shrank back, as if she feared what he might say. But he only smiled as, with the tears streaming down her face, she bent over and kissed him.
“There! there!” he protested. “You mustn’t cry. What are you cryin’ about me for? We know, you and me, who’s been lookin’ out for us and keepin’ us on the course all these years. We ain’t got anything to cry for. You just keep on bein’ a ‘good girl, Gracie, and goin’ to the right church and– I s’pose Ezekiel’ll lead in meetin’ now,” he added. “I do wish he was a stronger man.”
The doctor, whose fingers had been upon the old man’s wrist, looked up at Nat significantly.
“There, dad,” said the latter, “don’t you worry about Zeke Bassett, nor anything else. You just lay in dry dock and let Parker here overhaul your runnin’ riggin’ and get you fit for sea. That’s what you’ve got to do.”
“I’m fit and ready for the sea I’m goin’ to sail,” was the answer. His eyes wandered from his son to Mrs. Coffin. For an instant he seemed puzzled. Then he said:
“‘Evenin’, Keziah. I don’t know why you’re here, but–“
“I heard that Grace was alone and that you was sick, Eben. So I come right down, to help if I could.”
“Thank ye. You’re a good-hearted woman, Keziah, even though you ain’t seen the true light yet. And you’re housekeeper for that hired priest–a–a–” He paused, and a troubled look came over his face.
“What is it, dad?” asked Nat.
“I–I– Where’s Gracie? She’s here, ain’t she?”
“Yes, uncle, I’m here. Here I am,” said the girl. His fingers groped for her hand and seized it.
“Yes, yes, you’re here,” murmured Captain Eben. “I–I–for a minute or so, I–I had an awful dream about you, Gracie. I dreamed– Never mind. Doc, answer me this now, true and honest, man to man: Can you keep me here for just a little spell longer? Can you? Try! Ten minutes, say. Can you?”
“Of course I can. Cap’n Hammond, what are you–“
“I know. That’s all right. But I ain’t a young one to be petted and lied to. I’m a man. I’ve sailed ships. I’ve been on blue water. I’m goin’ to make port pretty soon, and I know it, but I want to get my decks clear fust, if I can. Gracie, stand still. Nat, run alongside where I can see you plainer. Keziah, you and the doctor stay where you be. I want you to witness this.”
“Cap’n,” protested Dr. Parker, “if I were you I wouldn’t–“
“Belay! Silence there, for’ard! Nat, you’re my boy, ain’t you? You set some store by the old man, hey?”
“I–I guess I do, dad.”
“Yes, I guess you do, too. You’ve been a pretty good boy; stubborn and pig-headed sometimes, but, take you by and large, pretty good. And Gracie, you’ve been a mighty good girl. Never done nothin’ I wouldn’t like, nothin’ mean nor underhand nor–“
“Hush, uncle! Hush! Please hush!”
“Well, you ain’t; so why should I hush? In this–this dream I had, seems ‘sif you–seems as if a man come to me and said that you was– It WAS a dream, wa’n’t it?”
He tried to rise. Nat and the doctor started forward. Grace shrank back.
“Of course it was, cap’n,” said the doctor briskly. “Now you mustn’t fret yourself in this way. Just lie still and–“
“Belay, I tell you. Yes, I guess ’twas a dream. It had to be, but ’twas so sort of real that I– How long have I been this way?”
“Oh, a little while! Now just–“
“Hush! Don’t pull your hand away, Gracie. Nat, give me yours. That’s it. Now I put them two hands together. See, doctor? See, Keziah?”
“He’s wandering. We must stop this,” muttered Parker. Mrs. Coffin, who began to comprehend what was coming, looked fearfully at Nat and the girl.
“No, I ain’t wanderin’, neither,” declared the old Come-Outer fretfully. “I’m sane as ever I was and if you try to stop me I’ll– Gracie, your Uncle Eben’s v’yage is ‘most over. He’s almost to his moorin’s and they’re waitin’ for him on the pier. I–I won’t be long now. Just a little while, Lord! Give me just a little while to get my house in order. Gracie, I don’t want to go till I know you’ll be looked out for. I’ve spoke to Nat about this, but I ain’t said much to you. Seems if I hadn’t, anyhow; I ain’t real sartin; my head’s all full of bells ringin’ and–and things.”
“Don’t, uncle, don’t!” pleaded Grace. “Don’t worry about me. Think of yourself, please.”
“S-sh-sh! Don’t put me off. Just listen. I want you to marry my boy, after I’m gone. I want you to say you will–say it now, so’s I can hear it. Will you, Gracie?”
Grace would have withdrawn her hand, but he would not let her. He clung to it and to that of his son with all his failing strength.
“Will you, Gracie?” he begged. “It’s the last thing I’m goin’ to ask of you. I’ve tried to be sort of good to you, in my way, and–“
“Don’t, don’t!” she sobbed. “Let me think a minute, uncle, dear. Oh, do let me think!”
“I ain’t got time, Gracie. You’ll have to say it now, or else– All right, then, think; but think quick.”
Grace was thinking. “If she really cares for him, she won’t let him ruin his life.” That was what Captain Elkanah had said. And here was a way to save him from ruin.
“Won’t you say it for me, Gracie?” pleaded Captain Eben. She hesitated no longer.
“Yes, uncle,” she answered through tears, “if Nat wants me he can have me.”
Keziah clasped her hands. Captain Eben’s face lit up with a great joy.
“Thank the Almighty!” he exclaimed. “Lord, I do thank you. Nat, boy, you’re consider’ble older than she is and you’ll have to plan for her. You be a good husband to her all her days, won’t ye? Why, what are you waitin’ for? Why don’t you answer me?”
Nat groaned aloud.
“A minute, dad,” he stammered. “Just give me a minute, for Heaven sakes! Keziah–“
“Keziah!” repeated Eben. “Keziah? What are you talkin’ to HER for? She knows there couldn’t be no better match in the world. You do know it, don’t ye, Keziah?”
“Yes,” said Keziah slowly. “I guess–I guess you’re right, Eben.”
“Keziah Coffin,” cried Nat Hammond, “do you tell me to marry Grace?”
“Yes, Nat, I–I think your father’s right.”
“Then–then–what difference does– All right, dad. Just as Grace says.”
“Thank God!” cried Captain Eben. “Doctor, you and Mrs. Coffin are witnesses to this. There! now my decks are clear and I’d better get ready to land. Gracie, girl, the Good Book’s over there on the bureau. Read me a chapter, won’t you?”
An hour later Keziah sat alone in the dining room. She had stolen away when the reading began. Dr. Parker, walking very softly, came to her and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“He’s gone,” he said simply.
CHAPTER XIII
IN WHICH KEZIAH BREAKS THE NEWS
It was nearly five o’clock, gray dawn of what was to be a clear, beautiful summer morning, when Keziah softly lifted the latch and entered the parsonage. All night she had been busy at the Hammond tavern. Busy with the doctor and the undertaker, who had been called from his bed by young Higgins; busy with Grace, soothing her, comforting her as best she could, and petting her as a mother might pet a stricken child. The poor girl was on the verge of prostration, and from hysterical spasms of sobs and weeping passed to stretches of silent, dry-eyed agony which were harder to witness and much more to be feared.
“It is all my fault,” she repeated over and over again. “All my fault! I killed him! I killed him, Aunt Keziah! What shall I do? Oh, why couldn’t I have died instead? It would have been so much better, better for everybody.”
“Ss-sh! ss-sh! deary,” murmured the older woman. “Don’t talk so; you mustn’t talk so. Your uncle was ready to go. He’s been ready for ever so long, and those of us who knew how feeble he was expected it any time. ‘Twa’n’t your fault at all and he’d say so if he was here now.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He’d say just as I do, that I was to blame. You don’t know, Aunt Keziah. Nobody knows but me.”
“Maybe I do, Gracie, dear; maybe I do. Maybe I understand better’n you think I do. And it’s all been for the best. You’ll think so, too, one of these days. It seems hard now; it is awful hard, you poor thing, but it’s all for the best, I’m sure. Best for everyone. It’s a mercy he went sudden and rational, same as he did. The doctor says that, if he hadn’t, he’d have been helpless and bedridden and, maybe, out of his head for another year. He couldn’t have lived longer’n that, at the most.”
“But you DON’T know, Aunt Keziah! You don’t know what I– I AM to blame. I’ll never forgive myself. And I’ll never be happy again.”
“Yes, you will. You’ll come, some day, to think it was best and right, for you and–and for others. I know you think you’ll never get over it, but you will. Somehow or other you will, same as the rest of us have had to do. The Lord tries us mighty hard sometimes, but He gives us the strength to bear it. There! there! don’t, deary, don’t.”
Dr. Parker was very anxious.
“She must rest,” he told Mrs. Coffin. “She must, or her brain will give way. I’m going to give her something to make her sleep and you must get her to take it.”
So Keziah tried and, at last, Grace did take the drug. In a little while she was sleeping, uneasily and with moans and sobbings, but sleeping, nevertheless.
“Now it’s your turn, Keziah,” said the doctor. “You go home now and rest, yourself. We don’t need you any more just now.”
“Where’s–where’s Cap’n Nat?” asked Keziah.
“He’s in there with his father. He bears it well, although he is mighty cut up. Poor chap, he seems to feel that he is to blame, somehow. Says Cap’n Eben and he had disagreed about something or other and he fears that hastened the old man’s death. Nonsense, of course. It was bound to come and I told him so. ‘Twas those blasted Come-Outers who really did it, although I shan’t say so to anyone but you. I’m glad Nat and the girl have agreed to cruise together. It’s a mighty good arrangement. She couldn’t have a better man to look out for her and he couldn’t have a better wife. I suppose I’m at liberty to tell people of the engagement, hey?”
“Yes. Yes, I don’t see any reason why not. Yes– I guess likely you’d better tell ’em.”
“All right. Now you go home. You’ve had a hard night, like the rest of us.”
How hard he had no idea. And Keziah, as she wearily entered the parsonage, realized that the morning would be perhaps the hardest of all. For upon her rested the responsibility of seeing that the minister’s secret was kept. And she, and no other, must break the news to him.
The dining room was dark and gloomy. She lighted the lamp. Then she heard a door open and Ellery’s voice, as he called down the stairs.
“Who is it?” he demanded. “Mrs. Coffin?”
She was startled. “Yes,” she said softly, after a moment. “Yes, Mr. Ellery, it’s me. What are you doin’ awake at such an hour’s this?”
“Yes, I’m awake. I couldn’t sleep well to-night, somehow. Too much to think of, I imagine. But where have you been? Why weren’t you at meeting? And where– Why, it’s almost morning!”
She did not answer at once. The temptation was to say nothing now, to put off the trying scene as long as possible.
“It’s morning,” repeated the minister. “Are you sick? Has anything happened?”
“Yes,” she answered slowly, “somethin’ has happened. Are you dressed? Could you come down?”
He replied that he would be down in a moment. When he came he found her standing by the table waiting for him. The look of her face in the lamplight shocked him.
“Why, Mrs. Coffin!” he exclaimed. “What IS it? You look as if you had been through some dreadful experience.”
“Maybe I have,” she replied. “Maybe I have. Experiences like that come to us all in this life, to old folks and young, and we have to bear ’em like men and women. That’s the test we’re put to, Mr. Ellery, and the way we come through the fire proves the stuff we’re made of. Sorrows and disappointments and heartbreaks and sicknesses and death–“
She paused on the word. He interrupted her.
“Death?” he repeated. “Death? Is some one dead, some one I know? Mrs. Coffin, what is it you are trying to tell me?”
Her heart went out to him. She held out both her hands.
“You poor boy,” she cried, “I’m trying to tell you one of the hardest things a body can tell. Yes, some one is dead, but that ain’t all. Eben Hammond, poor soul, is out of his troubles and gone.”
“Eben Hammond! Captain Eben? Dead! Why, why–“
“Yes, Eben’s gone. He was took down sudden and died about ten o’clock last night. I was there and–“
“Captain Eben dead! Why, he was as well as–as– She said– Oh, I must go! I must go at once!”
He was on his way to the door, but she held it shut.
“No,” she said gravely, “you mustn’t go. You mustn’t go, Mr. Ellery. That’s the one thing you mustn’t do.”
“You don’t understand. By and by I can tell you why I must be there, but now–“
“I do understand. I understand it all. Lord help us! if I’d only understood sooner, how much of this might have been spared. Why DIDN’T you tell me?”
“Mrs. Coffin–“
“John–you won’t mind my callin’ you John. I’m old enough, pretty nigh, to be your mother, and I’ve come to feel almost as if I was. John, you’ve got to stay here with me. You can’t go to that house. You can’t go to her.”
“Mrs. Coffin, what are you saying? Do you know– Have you–“
“Yes, I know all about it. I know about the meetin’s in the pines and all. Oh, why didn’t you trust me and tell me? If you had, all would have been SO much better!”
He looked at her in utter amazement. The blood rushed to his face.
“You know THAT?” he whispered.
“Yes, I know.”
“Did she tell–“
“No, nobody told. That is, only a little. I got a hint and I suspicioned somethin’ afore. The rest I saw with my own eyes.”
He was now white, but his jaw shot forward and his teeth closed.
“If you do know,” he said, “you must realize that my place is with her. Now, when she is in trouble–“
“Would you want to make that trouble greater? More than she could bear?”
“I think I might help her to bear it. Mrs. Coffin, you have been my truest friend, but one, in Trumet. You HAVE been like a mother to me. But I have thought this out to the end and I shall go through with it. It is my affair–and hers. If my own mother were alive and spoke as you do, I should still go through with it. It is right, it is my life. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done. I’m proud. I’m proud of her. And humble only when I think how unworthy I am to be her husband. I suppose you are fearful of what my congregation will say. Well, I’ve thought of that, too, and thought it through. Whatever they say and whatever they do will make no difference. Do you suppose I will let THEM keep me from her? Please open that door.”
He was very tragic and handsome–and young, as he stood there. The tears overflowed the housekeeper’s eyes as she looked at him. If her own love story had not been broken off at its beginning, if she had not thrown her life away, she might have had a son like that. She would have given all that the years had in store for her, given it gladly, to have been able to open the door and bid him go. But she was firm.
“It ain’t the congregation, John,” she said. “Nor Trumet, nor your ministry. That means more’n you think it does, now; but it ain’t that. You mustn’t go to her because–well, because she don’t want you to.”
“Doesn’t want me? I know better.” He laughed in supreme scorn.
“She doesn’t want you, John. She wouldn’t see you if you went. She would send you away again, sure, sartin sure. She would. And if you didn’t go when she sent you, you wouldn’t be the man I hope you are. John, you mustn’t see Grace again. She ain’t yours. She belongs to some one else.”
“Some one else!” He repeated the words in a whisper. “Some one ELSE? Why, Mrs. Coffin, you must be crazy! If you expect me to–“
“Hush! hush! I ain’t crazy, though there’s times when I wonder I ain’t. John, you and Grace have known each other for a few months, that’s all. You’ve been attracted to her because she was pretty and educated and–and sweet; and she’s liked you because you were about the only young person who could understand her and–and all that. And so you’ve been meetin’ and have come to believe–you have, anyway–that ’twas somethin’ more than likin’. But you neither of you have stopped to think that a marriage between you two was as impossible as anything could be. And, besides, there’s another man. A man she’s known all her life and loved and respected–“
“Stop, Mrs. Coffin! stop this wicked nonsense. I won’t hear it.”
“John, Grace Van Horne is goin’ to marry Cap’n Nat Hammond. There! that’s the livin’ truth.”
In his absolute confidence and faith he had again started for the door. Now he wheeled and stared at her. She nodded solemnly.
“It’s the truth,” she repeated. “She and Nat are promised to each other. Cap’n Eben, on his deathbed, asked Dr. Parker and me to be witnesses to the engagement. Now you see why you mustn’t go nigh her again.”
He did not answer. Instead, he stood silently staring. She stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Set down, John,” she said. “Set down and let me tell you about it. Yes, yes, you must. If I tell you, you’ll understand better. There! there! don’t you interrupt me yet and don’t you look that way. Do set down.”
She led him over to the rocking-chair and gently forced him into it. He obeyed, although with no apparent realization of what he was doing. Still with her hand on his shoulder she went on speaking. She told him of her visit to the Hammond tavern, saying nothing of Mr. Pepper’s call nor of her own experience in the grove. She told of Captain Eben’s seizure, of what the doctor said, and of the old Come-Outer’s return to consciousness. Then she described the scene in the sick room and how Nat and Grace had plighted troth. He listened, at first stunned and stolid, then with growing impatience.
“So you see,” she said. “It’s settled; they’re engaged, and Dr. Parker will tell everybody of the engagement this very mornin’. It wa’n’t any great surprise to me. Those two have been brought up together; ’twas the natural thing that was almost bound to happen. Eben’s heart was set on it for years. And she’ll have a good husband, John, that I know. And she’ll do her best to make him happy. He’s a good man and–“
The minister sprang to his feet.
“A good man!” he cried furiously. “A good man! One who will make use of a dying father to drive a girl into– Stand aside, Mrs. Coffin!”
“John, you mustn’t speak that way of Nat Hammond. He ain’t the kind to drive a girl against her will. And Grace is not one to be driven.”
“Are you blind? Can’t you see? Why, only yesterday, she– Do you think I shall permit such a wicked crime as that to–“
“Ss-sh! No, it ain’t wicked, it’s right. Right and best for everybody, for her especial. Yesterday she might have forgot for a minute. But think, just think what would have happened if she cared for you.”
“But she does! I know she does. Mrs. Coffin, stand away from that door.”
“No, John; if you go out of that door now, to go to her, you’ll have to go by main strength. You shan’t wreck yourself and that girl if I can help it. Be a man.”
The pair looked at each other. Keziah was determined, but so, evidently, was he. She realized, with a sinking heart, that her words had made absolutely no impression. He did not attempt to pass, but he slowly shook his head.
“Mrs. Coffin,” he said, “perhaps you believe you’re doing right. I hope–yes, I’ll give you credit for that belief. But I KNOW I am right and I shall go to her. Such a–a BARGAIN as that you have just told me of is no more to be regarded than–“
“John, I beg you–“
“NO.”
“Then go. Go this minute and break her heart and ruin her life and spoil her good name in this village where she’s lived since she was eight years old. Go! be selfish. I suppose that’s part of a man’s make-up. Go! Never mind her. Go!”
“I do ‘mind’ her, as you call it. I AM thinking of her.”
“No, you’re not. It’s yourself.”
“If it was myself–and God knows it is the only happiness on earth for me–if it was only myself, and I really thought she wished me to stay away, I’d stay, I’d stay, though I’d pray to die before this hour was over.”
“I know, I know. I’ve prayed to die myself afore now, but I’m here yet; and so will you be. We can’t die so easy.”
“But I know–“
“Do you suppose SHE would come to YOU if she knew it would be your ruin?”
He hesitated. The last time they met, ages before–no, only the previous afternoon–she had told him it was his happiness and his future only that she thought of. He choked and drew his hand across his eyes.
“Mrs. Coffin,” he said, “you tell me it will be her ruin. YOU tell me so. You SAY she doesn’t want me. I tell you that the only thing that will keep me from her is hearing that from her own lips. When she tells me to leave her I will, and not before.”
“She’ll tell you, John; she’ll tell you. I know you must despise me, pretty nigh. I cal’late you think I’m a worldly old woman, carin’ nothin’ for your feelin’s. Maybe I’ve talked pretty hard in the last few minutes, but I haven’t meant to be hard. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d listen to me. I expected you’d insist on seein’ her yourself. Well, then, go and see her, if you must, though what will come of it can only be more trouble, for you run the risk of folks knowin’ it and beginnin’ to wonder. And I know Grace. She’s made up her mind and won’t change it. But I do ask you this: I ask you not to go now. Wait a little while, do. I left her asleep, worn out by what she’s been through and under the effects of the doctor’s sleepin’ medicine. He said she must rest or he was afraid her brain would give out. For her sake, then, wait a little. Then, if you don’t hear from her, maybe I can arrange a meetin’ place where you can see her without anyone’s knowin’ it. I’ll try. But do wait a little while, for her sake, won’t you?”
At last he was listening and hesitating.
“Won’t you?” begged Keziah.
“Yes,” he answered slowly. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait until noon, somehow, if I can. I’ll try. But not a minute later. Not one. You don’t know what you’re asking, Mrs. Coffin.”
“Yes, I do. I know well. And I thank you for her sake.”
But he did not have to wait until noon. At six o’clock, through the dew-soaked grass of the yard, came the Higgins boy. For the first time in his short life he had been awake all night and he moved slowly.
The housekeeper opened the door. Ike held up an envelope, clutched in a grimy hand.
“It’s for you, Mrs. Keziah,” he said. “Gracie, she sent it. There ain’t no answer.”
Keziah took the letter. “How is she? And how’s Nat?” she asked.
“They’re doin’ pretty well, so ma says. Ma’s there now and they’ve sent for Hannah Poundberry. Gee!” he added, yawning, “I ain’t slept a wink. Been on the jump, now I tell ye. Didn’t none of them Come-Outers git in, not one. I sent ’em on the home tack abilin’. You ought to hear me give old Zeke Bassett Hail Columby! Gosh! I was just ahopin’ HE’D come.”
Mrs. Coffin closed the door and tore open the envelope. Within was another addressed, in Grace’s handwriting, to Mr. Ellery. The housekeeper entered the study, handed it to him and turned away.
The minister, who had been pacing the floor, seized the note eagerly. It was written in pencil and by a hand that had trembled much. Yet there was no indecision in the written words.
“Dear John,” wrote Grace. “I presume Aunt Keziah has told you of uncle’s death and of my promise to Nat. It is true. I am going to marry him. I am sure this is right and for the best. Our friendship was a mistake and you must not see me again. Please don’t try.
“GRACE VAN HORNE.”
Beneath was another paragraph.
“Don’t worry about me. I shall be happy, I am sure. And I shall hope that you may be. I shall pray for that.”
The note fell to the floor with a rustle that sounded loud in the stillness. Then Keziah heard the minister’s step. She turned. He was moving slowly across the room.
“John,” she cried anxiously, “you poor boy!”
He answered without looking back.
“I’m–going–up–to–my–room,” he said, a pause between each word. “I want to be alone awhile, Mrs. Coffin.”
Wearily Keziah set about preparing breakfast. Not that she expected the meal would be eaten, but it gave her something to do and occupied her mind. The sun had risen and the light streamed in at the parsonage windows. The breeze blew fresh and cool from the ocean. It was a magnificent morning.
She called to him that breakfast was ready, but he did not answer. She could eat nothing herself, and, when the table was cleared, prepared to do the week’s washing, for Monday is always washday in Trumet. Noon came, dinner time, but still he did not come down. At last Keziah could stand it no longer. She determined to go to him. She climbed the steep stairs and rapped on the door of his room.
“Yes?” she heard him say.
“It’s me,” was the reply. “Mr. Ellery, can I come in? I know you want to be alone, but I don’t think you’d ought to be, too much. I’d like to talk with you a few minutes; may I?”
A moment passed before he told her to enter. He was sitting in a chair by the window, dressed just as he had been when she returned from the tavern. She looked sharply at his face as it was turned toward her. His eyes were dry and in them was an expression so hopeless and dreary that the tears started to her own.
“John,” she said, “I couldn’t bear to think of your facin’ it alone up here. I just had to come.”
He smiled, and the smile was as hopeless as the look in his eyes.
“Face it?” he repeated. “Well, Mrs. Coffin, I must face it, I suppose. I’ve been facing it ever since–since I knew. And I find it no easier.”
“John, what are you goin’ to do?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Go away somewhere, first of all, I guess. Go somewhere and–and try to live it down. I can’t, of course, but I must try.”
“Go away? Leave Trumet and your church and your congregation?”
“Did you suppose I could stay here?”
“I hoped you would.”
“And see the same people and the same places? And do the same things? See–see HER! Did you”–he moved impatiently–“did you expect me to attend the wedding?”
She put out her hand. “I know it’ll be hard,” she said, “stayin’ here, I mean. But your duty to others–“
“Don’t you think we’ve heard enough about duty to others? How about my duty to myself?”
“I guess that’s the last thing we ought to think about in the world, if we do try to be fair and square. Your church thinks a heap of you, John. They build on you. You’ve done more in the little while you’ve been here than Mr. Langley did in his last fifteen years. We’ve grown and we’re doin’ good–doin’ it, not talkin’ it in prayer meetin’. The parish committee likes you and the poor folks in the society love you. Old Mrs. Prince was tellin’ me, only a little spell ago, that she didn’t know how she’d have pulled through this dreadful time if ‘twa’n’t for you. And there’s lots of others. Are you goin’ to leave them? And what reason will you give for leavin’?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I may not give any. But I shall go.”
“I don’t believe you will. I don’t believe you’re that kind. I’ve watched you pretty sharp since you and I have been livin’ together and I have more faith in you than that comes to. You haven’t acted to me like a coward and I don’t think you’ll run away.”
“Mrs. Coffin, it is so easy for you to talk. Perhaps if I were in your place I should be giving good advice about duty and not running away and so on. But suppose you were in mine.”
“Well, suppose I was.”
“Suppose– Oh, but there! it’s past supposing.”
“I don’t know’s ’tis. My life hasn’t been all sunshine and fair winds, by no means.”
“That’s true. I beg your pardon. You have had troubles and, from what I hear, you’ve borne them bravely. But you haven’t had to face anything like this.”
“Haven’t I? Well, what is it you’re asked to face? Disappointment? I’ve faced that. Sorrow and heartbreak? I’ve faced them.”
“You’ve never been asked to sit quietly by and see the one you love more than all the world marry some one else.”
“How do you know I ain’t? How do you know I ain’t doin’ just that now?”
“Mrs. Coffin!”
“John Ellery, you listen to me. You think I’m a homely old woman, probably, set in my ways as an eight-day clock. I guess I look like it and act like it. But I ain’t so awful old–on the edge of forty, that’s all. And when I was your age I wa’n’t so awful homely, either. I had fellers aplenty hangin’ round and I could have married any one of a dozen. This ain’t boastin’; land knows I’m fur from that. I was brought up in this town and even when I was a girl at school there was only one boy I cared two straws about. He and I went to picnics together and to parties and everywhere. Folks used to laugh and say we was keepin’ comp’ny, even then.
“Well, when I was eighteen, after father died, I went up to New Bedford to work in a store there. Wanted to earn my own way. And this young feller I’m tellin’ you about went away to sea, but every time he come home from a voyage he come to see me and things went on that way till we was promised to each other. The engagement wa’n’t announced, but ’twas so, just the same. We’d have been married in another year. And then we quarreled.
“‘Twas a fool quarrel, same as that kind gen’rally are. As much my fault as his and as much his as mine, I cal’late. Anyhow, we was both proud, or thought we was, and neither would give in. And he says to me, ‘You’ll be sorry after I’m gone. You’ll wish me back then.’ And says I, BEIN’ a fool, ‘I guess not. There’s other fish in the sea.’ He sailed and I did wish him back, but I wouldn’t write fust and neither would he. And then come another man.”
She paused, hesitated, and then continued.
“Never mind about the other man. He was handsome then, in a way, and he had money to spend, and he liked me. He wanted me to marry him. If–if the other, the one that went away, had written I never would have thought of such a thing, but he didn’t write. And, my pride bein’ hurt, and all, I finally said yes to the second chap. My folks did all they could to stop it; they told me he was dissipated, they said he had a bad name, they told me twa’n’t a fit match. And his people, havin’ money, was just as set against his takin’ a poor girl. Both sides said ruin would come of it. But I married him.
“Well, for the first year ‘twa’n’t so bad. Not happiness exactly, but not misery either. That come later. His people was well off and he’d never worked much of any. He did for a little while after we was married, but not for long. Then he begun to drink and carry on and lost his place. Pretty soon he begun to neglect me and at last went off to sea afore the mast. We was poor as poverty, but I could have stood that; I did stand it. I took in sewin’ and kept up an appearance, somehow. Never told a soul. His folks come patronizin’ around and offered me money, so’s I needn’t disgrace them. I sent ’em rightabout in a hurry. Once in a while he’d come home, get tipsy and abuse me. Still I said nothin’. Thank God, there was no children; that’s the one thing I’ve been thankful for.
“You can’t keep such things quiet always. People are bound to find out. They come to me and said, ‘Why don’t you leave him?’ but I wouldn’t. I could have divorced him easy enough, there was reasons plenty, but I wouldn’t do that. Then word came that he was dead, drowned off in the East Indies somewheres. I come back here to keep house for Sol, my brother, and I kept house for him till he died and they offered me this place here at the parsonage. There! that’s my story, part of it, more’n I ever told a livin’ soul afore, except Sol.”
She ceased speaking. The minister, who had sat silent by the window, apathetically listening or trying to listen, turned his head.
“I apologize, Mrs. Coffin,” he said dully, “you have had trials, hard ones. But–“
“But they ain’t as hard as yours, you think? Well, I haven’t quite finished yet. After word come of my husband’s death, the other man come and wanted me to marry him. And I wanted to–oh, how I wanted to! I cared as much for him as I ever did; more, I guess. But I wouldn’t–I wouldn’t, though it wrung my heart out to say no. I give him up–why? ’cause I thought I had a duty laid on me.”
Ellery sighed. “I can see but one duty,” he said. “That is the duty given us by God, to marry the one we love.”
Keziah’s agitation, which had grown as she told her story, suddenly flashed into flame.
“Is that as fur as you can see?” she asked fiercely. “It’s an easy duty, then–or looks easy now. I’ve got a harder one; it’s to stand by the promise I gave and the man I married.”
He looked at her as if he thought she had lost her wits.
“The man you married?” he replied. “Why, the man you married is dead.”
“No, he ain’t. You remember the letter you saw me readin’ that night when you come back from Come-Outers’ meetin’? Well, that letter was from him. He’s alive.”
For the first time during the interview the minister rose to his feet, shocked out of his despair and apathy by this astounding revelation.
“Alive?” he repeated. “Your husband ALIVE? Why, Mrs. Coffin, this is–“
She waved him to silence. “Don’t stop me now,” she said. “I’ve told so much; let me tell the rest. Yes, he’s alive. Alive and knockin’ round the world somewheres. Every little while he writes me for money and, if I have any, I send it to him. Why? Why ’cause I’m a coward, after all, I guess, and I’m scared he’ll do what he says he will and come back. Perhaps you think I’m a fool to put up with it; that’s what most folks would say if they knew it. They’d tell me I ought to divorce him. Well, I can’t, I CAN’T. I walked into the mess blindfold; I married him in spite of warnin’s and everything. I took him for better or for worse, and now that he’s turned out worse, I must take my medicine. I can’t live with him–that I can’t do–but while HE lives I’ll stay his wife and give him what money I can spare. That’s the duty I told you was laid on me, and it’s a hard one, but I don’t run away from it.”
John Ellery was silent. What could he say? Keziah went on.
“I don’t run away from it,” she exclaimed, “and you mustn’t run away from yours. Your church depends on you, they trust you. Are you goin’ to show ’em their trust was misplaced? The girl you wanted is to marry another man, that’s true, and it’s mighty hard. But she’ll marry a good man, and, by and by, she’ll be happy.”
“Happy!” he said scornfully.
“Yes, happy. I know she’ll be happy because I know she’s doin’ what’ll be best for her and because I know him that’s to be her husband. I’ve known him all my life; he’s that other one that– that–and I give him up to her; yes, I give him up to her, and try to do it cheerful, because I know it’s best for him. Hard for YOU? Great Lord A’mighty! do you think it ain’t hard for ME? I–I–“
She stopped short; then covering her face with her apron, she ran from the room. John Ellery heard her descending the stairs, sobbing as she went.
All that afternoon he remained in his chair by the window. It was six o’clock, supper time, when he entered the kitchen. Keziah, looking up from the ironing board, saw him. He was white and worn and grim, but he held out his hand to her.
“Mrs. Coffin,” he said, “I’m not going away. You’ve shown me what devotion to duty really means. I shall stay here and go on with my work.”
Her face lit up. “Will you?” she said. “I thought you would. I was sure you was that kind.”
CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH THE SEA MIST SAILS
They buried Captain Eben in the little Come-Outer cemetery at the rear of the chapel. A bleak, wind-swept spot was that cemetery, bare of trees and with only a few graves and fewer headstones, for the Come-Outers were a comparatively new sect and their graveyard was new in consequence. The grave was dug in the yellow sand beside that of Mrs. Hammond, Nat’s mother, and around it gathered the fifty or sixty friends who had come to pay their last tribute to the old sailor and tavern keeper.
The Come-Outers were there, all of them, and some members of the Regular society, Captain Zeb Mayo, Dr. Parker, Keziah Coffin, Mrs. Higgins, and Ike. Mrs. Didama Rogers was there also, not as a mourner, but because, in her capacity as gatherer of gossip, she made it a point never to miss a funeral. The Rev. Absalom Gott, Come-Outer exhorter at Wellmouth, preached the short sermon, and Ezekiel Bassett added a few remarks. Then a hymn was sung and it was over. The little company filed out of the cemetery, and Captain Eben Hammond was but a memory in Trumet.
Keziah lingered to speak a word with Grace. The girl, looking very white and worn, leaned on the arm of Captain Nat, whose big body acted as a buffer between her and over-sympathetic Come-Outers. Mrs. Coffin silently held out both hands and Grace took them eagerly.
“Thank you for coming, Aunt Keziah,” she said. “I was sure you would.”
“Least I could do, deary,” was the older woman’s answer. “Your uncle and I was good friends once; we haven’t seen each other so often of late years, but that ain’t changed my feelin’s. Now you must go home and rest. Don’t let any of these”–with a rather scornful glance at Josiah Badger and Ezekiel and the Reverend Absalom–“these Job’s comforters bother you. Nat, you see that they let her alone, won’t you?”
Captain Nat nodded. He, too, looked very grave and worn. “I’ll tend to them,” he said shortly. “Come, Grace,” he added; “let’s go.”
But the girl hung back. “Just a minute, Nat,” she said. “I–I– would you mind if I spoke to Aunt Keziah–alone? I only want to say a word.”
Nat strode off to the cemetery gate, where Josiah Badger stood, brandishing a red cotton handkerchief as a not too-clean emblem of mourning. Mr. Badger eagerly sprang forward, but ran into an impossible barrier in the form of the captain’s outstretched arm. Josiah protested and the captain replied. Grace leaned forward.
“Auntie,” she whispered, “tell me: Did a letter– Did he–“
“Yes, it came. I gave it to him.”
“Did–did he tell you? Do you know?”
“Yes, I know, deary.”
“Did he–is he–“
“He’s well, deary. He’ll be all right. I’ll look out for him.”
“You will, won’t you? You won’t let him do anything–“
“Not a thing. Don’t worry. We’ve had a long talk and he’s going to stay right here and go on with his work. And nobody else’ll ever know, Gracie.”
“How– O Aunt Keziah! how he must despise me.”
“Despise you! For doin’ what was your duty? Nonsense! He’ll respect you for it and come to understand ’twas best for both of you, by and by. Don’t worry about him, Gracie. I tell you I’ll look out for him.”
“I guess it will be better if he does despise me. And hate me, too. He can’t despise and hate me more than I do myself. But it IS right–what I’m doing; and the other was wrong and wicked. Auntie, you’ll come and see me, won’t you? I shall be so lonesome.”
“Yes, yes; I’ll come. Perhaps not right away. There’s reasons why I’d better not come right away. But, by and by, after it’s all settled and you and Nat”–she hesitated for an instant in spite of herself–“after you and Nat are married I’ll come.”
“Don’t talk about that NOW. Please don’t.”
“All right, I won’t. You be a good, brave girl and look out for Nat; that’s your duty and I’m sure you’ll do it. And I’ll do my best for John.”
“Do you call him John?”
“Yup. We had a sort of–of adoptin’ ceremony the other mornin’ and I– Well, you see, I’ve got to have somebody to call by their front name and he’s about all I’ve got left.”
“O Aunt Keziah! if I could be one half as patient and brave and sweet as you are–“
“Sssh! here comes Nat. Be kind to him. He’s sufferin’, too; maybe more’n you imagine. Here she is, Nat. Take her back home and be good to her.”
The broad-shouldered skipper led his charge out of the gate and down the “Turn-off.” Josiah Badger looked after them disgustedly. As Keziah approached, he turned to her.
“I swan to man!” he exclaimed, in offended indignation, “if I ain’t losin’ my respect for that Nat Hammond. He’s the f-f-fuf- for’ardest critter ever I see. I was just agoin’ to hail Gracie and ask her what she thought about my leadin’ some of the meetin’s now her uncle has been called aloft. I wanted to ask her about it fust, afore Zeke Bassett got ahead of me, but that Nat wouldn’t let me. Told me she mustn’t be b-b-b-bothered about little things now. LITTLE things! Now, what do you think of that, Mrs. Coffin? And I spoke to Lot Taylor, one of our own s-s-sas-sassiety, and asked what he thought of it, and he said for me to go home set d-d-down and let my h-h-h-hah-hair grow. Of all–“
“I tell you what you do, Josiah,” broke in the voice of Captain Zeb Mayo, “you go home or somewhere else and set down and have it cut. That’ll take pretty nigh as long, and’ll keep it from wearin’ out your coat collar. Keziah, I’ve been waitin’ for you. Get in my shay and I’ll drive you back to the parsonage.”
Mrs. Coffin accepted the invitation and a seat in the chaise beside Captain Zeb. The captain spoke of the dead Come-Outer and of his respect for him in spite of the difference in creed. He also spoke of the Rev. John Ellery and of the affection he had come to feel for the young man.
“I like that young feller, Keziah,” he said. “Like him for a lot of reasons, same as the boy liked the hash. For one thing, his religion ain’t all starch and no sugar. He’s good-hearted and kind and–and human. He seems to get just as much satisfaction out of the promise of heaven as he does out of the sartainty of t’other port. He ain’t all the time bangin’ the bulkhead and sniffin’ brimstone, like parsons I have seen. Sulphur’s all right for a spring medicine, maybe, but when June comes I like to remember that God made roses. Elkanah, he comes to me a while ago and he says, ‘Zebedee,’ he says, ‘don’t you think Mr. Ellery’s sermons might be more orthodox?’ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘they might be, but what a mercy ’tis they ain’t.’ He, he, he! I kind of like to poke Elkanah in the shirt front once in a while, just to hear it crackle. Say, Keziah, you don’t think the minister and Annabel are–“
“No,” was the emphatic interruption; “I know they ain’t; he ain’t, anyway.”
“Good! Them Danielses cal’late they own the most of this town already; if they owned the minister they’d swell up so the rest of us would have to go aloft or overboard; we’d be crowded off the decks, sure.”
“No one owns him. Haven’t you found that out?”
“Yup, I cal’late I have and I glory in his spunk.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so. Of course Cap’n Elkanah is boss of the parish committee and–“
“What? No, he ain’t nuther. He’s head of it, but his vote counts just one and no more. What makes you say that?”
“Oh, nuthin’. Only I thought maybe, long as Elkanah was feelin’ that Mr. Ellery wa’n’t orthodox enough, he might be goin’ to make a change.”
“He might? HE might! Say, Keziah Coffin, there was Mayos in this town and in this church afore the fust Daniels ever washed ashore; and they’ll be here when the last one blows up with his own importance. I’m on that parish committee–you understand?–and I’ve sailed ships and handled crews. I ain’t so old nor feeble but what I can swing a belayin’ pin. Boss! I’ll have you to know that no livin’ man bosses me.”
“All right! I didn’t mean to stir you up, Zebedee. But from things Cap’n Daniels has said I gathered that he was runnin’ the committee. And, as I’m a friend of Mr. Ellery, it–“
“Friend! Well, so’m I, ain’t I? If you ever hear of Daniels tryin’ any tricks against the minister, you send for me, that’s all. I’LL show him. Boss! Humph!”
The wily Keziah alighted at the parsonage gate with the feeling that she had sown seed in fertile ground. She was quite aware of Captain Zeb’s jealousy of the great Daniels. And the time might come when her parson needed an influential friend on the committee and in the Regular society.
The news of the engagement between Captain Nat Hammond and Grace Van Horne, told by Dr. Parker to one or two of his patients, spread through Trumet like measles through a family of small children. Didama Rogers learned it, so did Lavinia Pepper, and after that it might as well have been printed on the walls for all to read. It was talked over and gossiped about in every household from the lighthouse keeper’s family to that of George Washington Cash, who lived in the one-room hovel in the woods near the Wellmouth line, and was a person of distinction, in his way, being the sole negro in the county. And whenever it was discussed it was considered a fine thing for both parties concerned. Almost everyone said it was precisely what they expected.
Annabel Daniels and her father had not expected it. They were, however, greatly pleased. In their discussion, which lasted far into the night, Captain Elkanah expressed the opinion that the unexpected denouement was the result of his interview with Eben. He had told the old Come-Outer what would happen to his ward if she persisted in her impudent and audacious plot to entrap a Regular clergyman. She, being discovered, had yielded, perforce, and had accepted Nat as the next best catch.